


Nights Blazed Morning Bright

by Kyele



Series: on my heart (just like a tattoo) [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Falling In Love, Fluff, M/M, Multi, No Angst, Period-Typical Homophobia, Polyphobia, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 20:28:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4719377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis meets his soulmate in the height of summer, and forever after, the memory of that moment is seared into his mind bright as the sun at noon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nights Blazed Morning Bright

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queenaramis (ladyofbearisland)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=queenaramis+%28ladyofbearisland%29).



> Title from _The Sufi Way_ by Umar Ibn al-Farid (h/t to BBC Musketeers S02 E03 for quoting it). _"From his light, the niche of my essence enlightened me; by means of me, my nights blazed morning bright. I made me witness my being there for I was he; I witnessed him as me, the light, my splendour."_
> 
> Fluffy with almost no angst at all. I'm as surprised as anyone.
> 
> (With apologies to queenaramis for how long it took me to write this. Remember two months ago when I thought this wouldn't take me that long?
> 
> Hah.)

Aramis meets his soulmate in the height of summer, and forever after, the memory of that moment is seared into his mind bright as the sun at noon. It _had_ been noon, and that same sun had beaten down on Aramis’ head in the market-square, glare in his eyes and sweat on his brow even beneath the brim of his hat and the insouciant slump of his body against a wall beneath a small awning. It had been hot and stifling and miserable. It had been the best day of his life.

Market-duty is monotonous duty. Every minute is the same as the next. The merchants call. The patrons barter. The small boys run through the crowd barefoot. Some of them carry letters; some of them carry purses, and not all of them are the boys’ by right. Aramis watches it all. The purses aren’t his business. He’s a token today, a symbol, a mannequin in a Musketeers’ uniform. He represents the watchful eye of the King. Passers-by nod at him respectfully, or hurry past, pretending Aramis isn’t there. All save one.

This one is a slender man. Neatly groomed – _fastidious, attentive to detail_ , Aramis will learn. His clothes too are scrupulously clean, and of good quality, but show the effects of much wear. _Better to buy well once then to buy cheaply thrice, when money is dear,_ the man will explain later. There is a scar on his left cheek. It will be a long while before Aramis learns any more of that scar.

All of this Aramis takes in in an instant. This, and more. For in addition to the details Aramis sees that the man’s eyes are sharp with intelligence but not with scorn; that his smile is wide with kindness but not with mockery; and that his air is conciliatory without being submissive. Altogether Aramis’ interest is piqued. It requires no artifice to put on an obliging air and inquire of the stranger, politely, “May this King’s solider be of service to you, good sir?”

“Any man who can point out the Rue des Fossoyeurs may be of service to me,” the man replies with a smile. “I’m called to a patient there, but not being a native of Paris, I find myself quite turned around.”

“How is it that you’ve been called to a patient whose dwelling you’ve never visited?” Aramis asks, surprised. The man’s way of speaking is genteel, and it requires no great leap of logic to conclude that the man is a doctor. But if the patient in the Rue des Fossoyeurs has the means to call for a doctor, they would have the means to choose their favorite, not simply call for the nearest one to hand.

The man looks rueful, as if he understands what’s passing through Aramis’ head. “I mentioned I’m not a native of Paris? Actually I’m only just arrived. I hope to build a practice here, but for the moment I’m indebted to a friend from medical school for my entrée into society. It’s a mutually beneficial situation. My friend found himself needing to travel suddenly; a complicated entail, and he’s afraid that anyone not on the spot will be cut out, which for Michel would be a serious blow – ” the stranger catches Aramis’ eyes widening at this flow of words and stops himself. “I am seeing his patients in his absence,” the stranger explains, reverting to the point. “They know to expect me, and have been assured of my credentials, but I’m afraid no one – not even I – thought that I’d need an escort to their residences. I’m to see Madame de Bois-Tracy today, and I’ve been through this market-square four times already with no end in sight!”

The stranger’s general air of good will slips a little towards the end of this speech, and Aramis catches his first glimpse of a genuine emotion. The emotion happens to be frustration, but it doesn’t matter. That one glimpse is enough for Aramis to be utterly enchanted.

Later they’ll speak of this. Later Aramis will tell the story over and over again, and Lemay will smile, every time. In a world where your soul mate’s name is written on your skin at birth, it’s a rare and miraculous thing indeed to begin to fall in love _before_ making that critical connection.

Right now Aramis doesn’t even know the stranger’s name. He does know, now, that he wants to correct that, and so he says as much. “May I know the name of the gentleman I’m escorting?” he says, straightening from his slouch.

The stranger startles. “My name is Lemay, but I ask for directions only, I mustn’t take you away from your duty – ”

Aramis shrugs. “My duty is not compromised by going a few streets over,” he says. “I am called Aramis.”

The stranger drops his bag.

Aramis catches it, bending over to do so, and thereby missing the look of shock that Lemay later assures him was on Lemay’s face plain as day. “Careful, friend,” Aramis cautions, straightening and holding out the bag. “I’m sure doctor’s supplies aren’t cheap.”

“No,” Lemay says, which is a perfectly fine response, and not at all harmed by his manner of delivery, which is vague and obviously distracted.

Aramis prods Lemay with the bag, encouraging him to open his arms and take it. “You had an appointment, you said?”

“Yes,” Lemay says. He reaches out to take the bag back, and accidentally – deliberately – brushes Aramis’ fingers with his own.

 _Oh_ , Aramis has a moment to think, before the sun’s glare grows so bright that all Aramis can see is white.

* * *

Somehow – though Aramis is never quite sure how – they refrain from falling upon each other until they reach the relative safety of a dark alley. Somehow they part again within minutes, remembering the appointment for which Lemay must not be late. If Lemay were to be late, it would imperil his chances of building up a practice in Paris, which would leave him without the financial means to support himself. Without the ability to support himself, he would have to leave and return to his native Italy. Aramis, it goes without saying, would give Lemay everything he possesses. But the pay of a Musketeer will not support two, at least not without uncomfortable questions being asked.

Somehow Aramis finds the strength to walk Lemay to the Rue des Fossoyuers and part from him there. Somehow Aramis does this without a single touch being exchanged between them. When Aramis tips the brim of his hat in common courtesy, though, Lemay’s gaze burns like his touch had in the market-square.

“You recall our appointment later,” Aramis can’t stop himself from saying, though he manages to restrain himself to words appropriate for public.

“I have committed your direction to memory.” Lemay seems unable to take his eyes from Aramis: a small consolation, yet still a vital one.

“Good day, then,” Aramis says inanely.

“Good day.” A fleeting smile, like lightning on a sunny day. Then Lemay knocks on the servants’ door, and Aramis gathers up the strength to tear himself away, before a maid can open it and observe a Musketeer loitering there.

When Lemay is gone, the day, formerly so bright, is suddenly dull. Aramis nearly stumbles in the dimness. He ducks into a nearby alley, where he may lean against the wall without anyone noticing, and where he can blame any dimness on the shade cast by two buildings built too close to each other. Aramis finds himself blinking rapidly, trying to remind his body of what the world is like without Lemay’s presence nearby. Trying to reacclimate to the dark.

The rest of his watch passes by in a blur; someone could be murdered in front of him, probably, and Aramis would never know it. The only sounds he hears are the memory of Lemay’s voice, whispering his name over and over again like a prayer – and the bells of Notre Dame, ringing the hour that releases Aramis from market-duty and lets him make his weary blinded way back to the garrison.

Lemay comes to him at sunset, when the sky is alight with God’s fire and the clouds burn brighter than the torches that the novices are lighting around the garrison, one by one, faces bright with all the hope of youths at the cusp of manhood and greatness. Aramis remembers being such a youth, once. He feels like one again, when he hears the confident knock. When he opens the door to find Lemay standing there, and closes it again with Lemay safely inside, and his soul mate twines their fingers together with a smile brighter than a thousand suns.

They mean to talk. They mean to ask a thousand questions and answer a thousand more. To learn about each other, the stranger who is nevertheless the other half of their soul. To talk philosophy and discuss the ways of Kings, the price of butter in the market-square and the state of the grapes in Gascony, the complaints of Lemay’s landlord and the failure of Serge’s latest dinner. To know their pasts and map their futures.

The only words they speak are each others’ names. Their lips are much too busy kissing, their tongues tracing patterns on the each others’ skin. Their breath is far more valuable than speech, held in as the pleasure mounts and then released all at once to gasp and pant and ride the waves of joy that follow. They make love until the stars are winking out in the sky above them that neither of them can see. They embrace with the serenity of a solemn pact. They fall asleep with the promise of dawn in each others’ eyes.

* * *

Aramis wakes three hours after sunrise, with a warm weight at his side and the skin of his forearm burning to the touch. Lemay stirs and frowns in his sleep as Aramis extracts his arm. There’s no sleeve to tug up, naked as they still are. He can see the change in his mark almost immediately.

Aramis had been eight when his soul mark had come in. One summer’s day he’d gone out on the lake, boating, with his sister and the servant who had practically raised them both. As the day had gotten warmer Aramis had begun to redden. As a youth he’d been more sensitive to the sun. They’d returned to shore, and old Miguel had produced a lotion to soothe the burn. As Aramis had been rubbing it in, Miguel had stopped him, seizing Aramis’ left wrist with an exclamation of dismay.

Not all of the burn had been the sun’s doing. There on the soft inner skin of his left forearm, faint still but readable, had been the name _François_.

(“Eight years old,” Lemay will murmur, later, when Aramis tells him this tale. “So young?”

“We all were marked young, in my family. My sister’s appeared the next day.”

“The very next day? What was your age difference?”

“We were twins.”

“What was her mark?”

“Charlotte,” Aramis will say, though that’s only half the story. Later he’ll tell Lemay the rest, but for then it will be enough that Lemay clicks his tongue in sorrow and says something soft and kind and comforting.)

 _François_ for Aramis, _Charlotte_ for Adele. First name only. That’s how it works: just the first name, until you meet the person whose mark matches yours, until you touch their skin for the first time. Then the rest fills in. Confirmation. As if the mere feeling of your soulmate’s touch isn’t enough. The rest of the mark appearing in is the ultimate proof that you’ve truly found your soulmate.

This morning _François_ is unchanged on Aramis’ arm, dark and stable as it’s been for decades. New, faint still but darkening rapidly, is the rest: - _Edouard Lemay._

His soul mate.

“Oh, look at it,” Lemay says softly. Aramis’ movements have woken him. He sits up and leans over Aramis, taking Aramis’ forearm in his own hands and cradling it as if it’s something precious. One well-manicured finger traces around the new words. Never quite touching, but never too far away.

“You?” Aramis asks hoarsely.

Lemay nods. He twists at the waist, letting Aramis see the new writing spiraling down his spine. Last night it had only said _Aramis_ , in neat, small lettering. Now it says _René d’Aramis d’Herblay._

Aramis tugs his arm free of Lemay’s and makes Lemay lay down, stretched out like a cat sunning himself, so that Aramis can inspect the mark properly. It’s still reddened from growth. But it’s solid, and firm, and proof that they’re together. That they belong.

Aramis leans down and kisses it, right where the _y_ of _d’Herblay_ meets the cleft of Lemay’s buttocks. Lemay squirms, gasping, and twists again to pull Aramis down with him.

They make love again. In the aftermath, Aramis thinks of the old family servant who’d tried to warn him about the eternal need for strength, for power, for position and patronage. As a boy Aramis had never understood.

Now he’s a man. Now he’s known the touch of his François. Now he has something to protect.

* * *

The next day Athos pairs up with Aramis at practice, and suggests that they practice their horsemanship, to give them an opportunity to speak privately away from the garrison and all of its listening ears.

In the forgiving woods, Athos takes out a letter and hands it silently to Aramis. The scrawl on it is familiar. Eagerly Aramis unfolds it and reads it. His sister writes to him as often as she can, but Athos is always her first priority when she can find pen and paper and a few spare minutes. He’s never grudged her that. If he had, he’d have stopped, now that he knows what it’s like to have known his soul mate. Of course Charlotte and Athos come first for Adele. Aramis has known Lemay for barely forty-eight hours, but already Lemay is more important to him than his sister, his twin.

This time Adele’s managed to write to him as well, though, and Aramis drinks in the words so quickly his eyes nearly cross. He turns the pages rapidly, skimming more than reading. That will come later. He’s read and reread, pore over each passage and read them aloud to Lemay – he’ll have to write her about Lemay, God – but for now the most important thing is that his sister has written to him at all.

“She’s well,” Aramis breathes in relief when he reaches the end.

“They both are.” Athos smiles, one of his rare peaceful smiles. “They’ll be coming through Paris again next month. Charlotte wants to try Lyon next.”

Years of looking for their fourth, their Charles, hasn’t left Athos bitter. Nor has being left alone in Paris while Adele and Charlotte do the looking. Impulsively Aramis asks what he’s never thought to ask before: “How can you bear it? Being separated from them?”

He can ask this of Athos. Athos knows everything about Aramis, has always known it, ever since Aramis had met him as a young novice and practically dragged Athos to Adele in his eagerness. He’s already told Athos about Lemay; he’d never considered holding that back. Now he can ask this question of his brother. And Athos hums in thought, giving Aramis’ question the consideration it deserves.

“Being with them is wonderful,” Athos says slowly. “But also overwhelming. I couldn’t do it always. It’s like staring into the sun. They’re bright, so bright, and I adore it. But eventually it begins to burn, and I must close my eyes, else I go blind.”

“I don’t understand,” Aramis has to admit. He would spend every moment with Lemay if he could. He would forswear clothing to feel Lemay’s hands at his hips, abandon all other hearing if he could leave his ear pressed to Lemay’s chest and listen to his heartbeat. To be apart seems frightening.

Athos sighs. “Perhaps the Church is right, then, to say that mankind was only meant to have one mate. I love Adele and Charlotte both dearly – and if they ever find Charles, I will love him, too – but it’s too much for mortal man to bear.”

“Or perhaps every person is simply different,” Aramis protects. “Adele and Charlotte never speak of being overwhelmed.”

“No. And they’d have me with them if I’d consent to it.” Athos shakes his head. “But I am as I am, and they must take me so, for I can’t believe I’ll change.”

“Nor do they ask you to.” Aramis tucks Adele’s letter away, careful and secure inside his vest-pocket.

Athos’ gaze is knowing, and settles on Aramis’ clothed forearm. “So now it’s your turn. Tell me about your François.”

“Oh, Athos.” Aramis has to stop to breathe. “How can I describe him?”

“With words, and when they fail, simply sigh like you just did. I’ll fill in the details from those romance novels your sister insists I read.”

“You love them too.”

“I admit no such thing.”

Aramis laughs. Then he tries to answer Athos’ question, and if he feels like the words fall flat, well, Athos has soulmates of his own. He’ll understand.

* * *

The days blur into each other, timeless moments caught in memory to be preserved forever. Aramis meets Lemay in the market-square, and Aramis shows his lover around Paris, teaches him its twists and turns so Lemay will never again be lost. They meet at Lemay’s lodgings, where Aramis is presented as a Musketeer and an amateur medic, whose tutelage Lemay has undertaken in exchange for a steady income stream to bolster his meagre savings. They meet at the garrison, where Lemay quickly gains entrée into the unique society that is the Musketeers when he stitches up old Laflèche after a training accident, and so well that there won’t even be a scar. The novice who had lost his grip on his sword and cut Laflèche will have a scar, but not the physical kind, so Lemay can do little to help. Still, he probably saves the youth’s career. The novice is appropriately grateful; later, Lemay kisses Aramis in the shadows of the back alley behind the tavern, and he tastes of the wine the novice had bought and all the tomorrows stretching out before them.

Lemay’s first visits to his friend Michel’s clients go well. They appear impressed, and one has already made arrangements for a second visit in three days’ time. That’s well enough for the moment. But when Michel returns, he’ll take his clients back. Lemay needs to attract new patients before then. And in the meanwhile he needs to earn enough to live on. He needs to purchase for himself the tools and equipment he’s currently borrowing from Michel. He needs to build his reputation among the elite so that the friends and cousins of Michel’s patients begin to patronize Lemay. That requires Lemay to begin to move in those circles, which entails further outlays: clothes, bribes, adornments. Outlays his current finances cannot support.

“My parents didn’t leave me much, and what they did went to my uncle to support me,” Lemay says.

“He should have left it for you,” Aramis says fiercely. They’re in bed together, watching another sun rise, naked and unashamed.

Lemay hushes him with a gentle kiss. “Medical training is expensive; I’m sure that what my parents left didn’t cover it. My uncle invested his own earnings into me. He would have left me his practice, if I’d wanted it, and he never complained when I said I wanted to go to university instead. I worked to pay my way through, but still he was buying my clothes, my books… when I left to come to Paris, he told me that I’d always have a place with him, if it didn’t work out. Please don’t say he did anything less for me than the best.”

“I’m sorry.” The unaccustomed feeling of shame catches Aramis off-guard; he buries his face in the junction of Lemay’s neck and shoulder, apologetic in ways he’s not sure he can express. “I – my protective instincts got the better of me. I was wrong.”

Lemay strokes Aramis’ bare shoulder blade contemplatively. “Have you ever had anyone to protect before?”

Aramis shakes his head, mustache rubbing against Lemay’s neck, making Lemay start and laugh. “My sister, perhaps, but she never needed it.” He pulls away to smile at Lemay. “You’re the first. I’m afraid I’ll be rather clumsy at it, for a while.”

“That’s all right,” Lemay says. “We’ll have a lifetime to learn.”

Aramis kisses him then, unable and unwilling to resist the urge to be touching. Their bond is still so new. So miraculous.

“Your parents,” Aramis says later, going back to what Lemay had said. “They died when you were young – did they ever know? About your mark?”

“No.” Lemay stares out the window for a few moments. He’s not quite sad, but solemn, respectful of the ghosts of his past.

Aramis is silent, waiting. He watches the light of the rising sun catch fire on Lemay’s cheekbones.

At last Lemay goes on. “After they died my uncle took me in. He was a doctor. I became his apprentice… His mark said _Matteo._ He’d never looked, though. He said he was safer alone, and I would be, too.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Yes. But I looked anyway.” For years, in Italy, and then years more, at the great medical university in Switzerland. “And yet you were nowhere to be found.”

“I was here,” Aramis says regretfully. He wishes he’d been born there, in the fields around Naples, or in the snowy mountains of Jura near Basel. But Lemay touches Aramis’ lips with his fingers and smiles.

“And if I’d found you then, young and untried, what mess might I have made of it?” he asks rhetorically. “Perhaps it’s better so.”

“Yes, for now you’re old and wise,” Aramis laughs.

“Wiser than I was.”

“And tomorrow you’ll be wiser still.”

“As long as I’m with you,” Lemay smiles.

That smile is irresistible. Aramis falls into it. He begins to understand that he will never fall out.

* * *

“How did you come to France?” Lemay asks later. He’s sitting with his back against a tree. They’ve ridden out of Paris, on this beautiful morning when they have no other commitments, both feeling the yearning for open skies and wide places and green growing things. Aramis is sitting across from him against another tree. The hamper is empty at their right; the wine-bottles nearly so. Their feet tangle together where they’re stretched out between them.

“We had to run away,” Aramis says wistfully. “My sister and I. Because of our marks.”

“Did your parents…?”

“Miguel, our servant, said that we had gotten each others’ marks by accident. Because we were twins. That they’d been switched while we were in our mothers’ womb. That I should have _Charlotte_ and she should have _François_. But he hid it from our parents, and helped us run away, when we got too old for hiding.”

“Where is she now?”

“She found her Charlotte. They travel a great deal. They’re still looking, you see. Miguel never knew about her other names.”

Lemay nods in seeming understanding. “They’re looking for their third.”

“No, their third they’ve found already.” Aramis raises four fingers and holds his breath.

“Oh,” Lemay breathes. He looks worried, and sad, but there’s no trace of anger or disgust. “Oh, God protect them.”

Aramis kisses his cross. “He does. Or so I pray.”

“Do you ever see her?”

“When she’s in Paris, she visits.” Aramis smiles at Lemay across the intervening distance. “She’ll love you.”

Lemay smiles back. “Of course she will. We have you in common, after all.”

* * *

Back at the garrison after their impromptu day out of Paris, Aramis brushes off the invitations of his companions to join them and retires, pleading exhaustion from the heat. The excuse is a plausible one. He’s not the only one who’s ever returned from a day of supposed leisure fatigued and eager for respite.

“But roust yourself out for dinner,” Porthos urges him, clapping him on the shoulder. “My treat, all right?”

“Yes, all right,” Aramis agrees, hardly knowing what he says. His mind is full of Lemay. Then he remembers: he’s promised to go to Lemay tonight.

Aramis blinks, trying to find a way to take his words back, withdraw his agreement to Porthos’ kindly-meant offer. Athos watches him and grins a little. Then, as he so often does, he steps in to save Aramis from himself.

“I’ve got duty tonight,” Athos says to Porthos. “Better make it tomorrow.”

“What? You haven’t!” Porthos protests, with the assurance of a man who memorizes the duty schedules as soon as they’re posted, the better to know when all three of them can make mischief together.

“I agreed to cover for Havet.”

 _“_ _Merde!”_ Porthos swears in disappointment. “I’m on duty tomorrow, and Aramis the night following. It’ll be Friday before we’re all free again.”

“Patience is a virtue.”

“I wanted a roast tonight.”

“Put up with Serge tonight, my friend, and the roast will be yours Friday. I’ll buy the wine, and Aramis will stake you at cards.”

“I – ” Aramis protests reflexively.

“You know Porthos wins more often than he loses,” Athos says calmly. “And I foresee great luck for him Friday. You’ll make a profit.”

Slowly Aramis closes his mouth. It makes no sense, but something in him believes Athos when he says that Porthos will win Friday night. And Aramis is reminded that he now has a need for money that goes beyond a well-turned-out wardrobe and as much wine as he likes. Medical tools are expensive, and the necessary trappings to show well to the nobility are hardly less so.

“Friday, then,” Porthos sighs wistfully.

“Friday,” Aramis agrees.

* * *

Friday night Porthos wins at cards, and wins, and wins again, until his opponents accuse him of cheating. For the first time in Porthos’ life, perhaps, he is not. That may account for why Porthos defends himself against the charge so poorly.

“Next time, just take off your shirt if that’s what they bloody want!” Aramis shouts at Porthos, upending a table into the shins of the man charging at him and ducking under his friend’s fist.

“Sets a bad precedent,” Porthos grunts, knocking two heads together and letting their stunned owners fall to the ground. “Besides, what if the ladies were to see?”

Porthos winks broadly at the two working girls behind the bar. Obligingly, they giggle and blow kisses his way.

“Watch out!” one of them cries, no doubt referring to the man sneaking up behind Porthos with a wine bottle in one hand.

Athos barrels into said man, slamming him into the wall and headbutting him neatly. “Watch your back,” he says sternly to Porthos.

“Thanks,” Porthos says in return. He looks around for someone else to punch, but they’re all on the floor, groaning.

“I think we should make our exit,” Aramis says. He can’t be _too_ annoyed, not given the amount of money in his pocket – his original stake doubled and then doubled again, all pulled out of the pot before the situation had turned ugly. Another double handful had gone into Porthos’ pocket just before the first accusation of cheating. Athos removes his hat and sweeps the rest of Porthos’ winnings into it, flipping the barmaids a coin each for their trouble.

“Come back anytime,” one of them calls after Porthos.

Porthos touches his fingers to his bandana and grins at them both. Aramis rolls his eyes, and chivvies his friends out the door.

Back at the garrison, as Athos heads off to his bunk, Porthos touches Aramis’ shoulder to ask him to wait a moment. Aramis turns obligingly. Porthos is watching him, surprisingly serious for a man who’d been drinking, flirting, and winning at cards and bar-fights mere minutes ago.

“Is it enough?” Porthos asks, confusingly.

“Is what enough?”

“The money.”

Aramis blinks, taken aback.

“I’m not asking what you need it for,” Porthos says hastily. “Just – is it enough? I could play again tomorrow. Plenty of other taverns in Paris. Or if it’s something else – say someone’s head needs bashing in – I could do that, too.”

“Oh, Porthos,” Aramis says softly, genuinely touched. “My friend. Thank you. It’s not so urgent or so dire as that. The money will help,” he adds, thinking of Lemay’s practice, all the expenses a doctor must incur before ever their first patient pays a sou. “And I may take you up on your offer of another game. But for the moment, I need nothing more than your friendship.”

Porthos’ face creases in a grin. “You’ve always got that,” he says simply. “Always, d’ye hear me?”

“Yes,” Aramis says, sincere and gratified.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“And you, my friend. And you.”

* * *

Porthos’ money opens doors for Lemay that would have taken months of savings for him to reach on his own. And an open door proves to be all Lemay needs: his skills are impressive, his manner calming, and his appearance genteel. Among the elite of France, to know him is to approve of him. He begins to be sought after. First a grateful lady invites him to her literary salon; then a wealthy merchant insists on promoting him to every member of his not insignificant client base. Lemay grows busier as he pursues these new opportunities. Aramis is heartily glad of his success, though in the short term he misses the evenings and nights and sunrises they are no longer spending together.

Then Michel writes Lemay to say that the estate has been wound up and he’ll be returning within the month. Lemay is nothing but grateful for the opportunity Michel is given him, but Aramis begins to worry. The real test is coming. How many of the new patients Lemay has attracted will stay with him, once Michel has returned and reclaimed his practice? Has Lemay’s name become widely enough known, his skill sufficiently established? Financially, Lemay has saved enough – with the addition of Porthos’ winnings – that he could remain in Paris for several months, perhaps a year, trying to establish himself. With frugality and the addition of Aramis’ salary, the two could survive even longer. But Aramis knows Lemay wouldn’t be happy with that. Lemay views being a doctor as a calling. If he cannot pursue it in Paris, he’ll want to go elsewhere. And Aramis will go with him. There’s no question of that. But the thought of leaving his life behind – leaving Athos, whom Adele has trusted him to watch over in her absence – leaving the Musketeers, leaving the court, leaving France entirely, perhaps –

It doesn’t break his heart, exactly. He’d be with Lemay; that’s all that matters. But he doesn’t want to do it any more than Lemay wants to live on Aramis’ salary, a kept man with no independent purpose.

Aramis doesn’t know what to do. Athos counsels him to wait, be patient, and put his faith in God. Aramis retorts that that hasn’t helped Athos find his Charles.

Aramis regrets the words as soon as they’re out of mouth, borne of bitterness and fear, striking home and causing Athos to draw back in his own intensely personal pain.

“No, I didn’t mean it,” Aramis says futilely, reaching out to his brother in all but blood and embracing him remorsefully.

“If I had a better suggestion I would offer it to you,” Athos says in sad resignation.

“I know. I – I’m so sorry, Athos.”

Athos shrugs stiffly. “The world is as it is, and I cannot change it,” he says. “I do not pretend I can. Nor can you.”

“I know.” Aramis sighs. “I just wish there were something I could do.”

“Hope for a better tomorrow.”

“And if I’d rather try to make one, instead of waiting and hoping?”

Athos smiles a little, even through his pain. “I will wish you the best of luck.”

* * *

Adele and Charlotte pass through Paris the week after Michel’s letter arrives, a bright spot among the worry. They come freely to the garrison. Adele is in Paris to visit her brother, of course, as all the world knows. And Charlotte is openly acknowledged as Athos’ wife, his soul mate. They’d been the first two to meet each other, and been formally married in the eyes of God, before Athos’ brother had found Charlotte’s other marks and tried to hang her from the nearest tree in outraged offense. Thomas’ subsequent death had been widely viewed as suspicious by the townsfolk, and the Comte and Comtesse had found it wise to remove to Paris for a few years until the furor hopefully dies down.

“By which grace we found you,” Charlotte is wont to say, with her head resting on Adele’s shoulder.

Athos will look troubled, and Adele will squeeze his hand in silent sympathy. Thomas may have turned out to be violent and a bigot, may have tried to kill Charlotte, may have brought his own death upon his head. But still he’d been Athos’ brother. And somewhere there is a young lady named Catherine, who would have woken up one day to see her soul mark turn red, and then slowly fade away.

Better for her, Aramis had used to think. Better to be free of someone who would try to hang his brother’s soul mate simply because Athos’ hadn’t been the only name on her body. But with François at his side Aramis begins to see the tragedy of it nonetheless.

Still, it’s in the past, and naught can be done about it now. Aramis tries to put his newfound sympathy away, alongside his worry for the future. Between Lemay’s presence and Adele’s smiles, it’s easy to do.

They dine together. Charlotte and Porthos are great friends, perhaps as much because of their differences in temperament because of them. Adele feigns a slight limp – a stone turned under her foot, she claims – giving Aramis the excuse to invite Doctor Lemay to join them, and examine her, to make sure it’s nothing serious. The evening passes in laughter and love. Aramis, Porthos and Lemay excuse themselves early, leaving the other three to pass the night in privacy. Porthos tips both Aramis and Lemay a wink outside the tavern and takes a different route home.

The next day Adele sweet-talks Treville into giving Aramis extra guard duty. She and Charlotte spend the day with Lemay showing them around the city, while Aramis bows at every passing noble and tries not to make himself sick worrying. What if his sister doesn’t like his soul mate? What if they don’t get along? What if, despite all evidence to the contrary, she’s never really been comfortable with Aramis’ male soul mark name, and this is the straw that’s going to break the camel’s back?

He needn’t have worried. He rushes to Lemay’s lodgings after guard duty, not even bothering to go by the garrison first, and arrives dusty and sweating to find his sister and her mates sharing iced wine with Lemay in the small courtyard included with his lodgings, laughing over some joke. Aramis knows that Lemay’s landlady is out at this hour, so he has no hesitation in going straight to his soul mate, letting his weary head rest against Lemay’s shoulder and sighing out his worry and strain.

Lemay kisses his dust-streaked hair. “You look hot. Wine?”

“Please,” Aramis begs.

Adele brings him a glass with a smile. “I love him already, René. I’m this close to stealing him myself.”

Aramis hears what she doesn’t say and lifts his head up, accepting the wine with a searching look. “No luck with your Charles?”

She shakes her head ruefully. Charlotte, sitting under the shade of the small awning, says, “We’ll have better luck in Lyon, I hope.”

“Have you any reason to believe he’s in Lyon?”

“Only that we haven’t looked there yet.”

“I’m sorry,” Aramis says uselessly. Lemay buries his fingers in Aramis’ hair; Aramis lets his head fall to Lemay’s shoulder again, and sighs. He knows what they’re feeling, Adele and Charlotte and Athos. He’s lived with it his whole life until now. Now that he’s complete he can’t fathom going back to the way he’d been before.

How is it for them, with their greater numbers? Is each bond complete unto itself, making them only that much more aware of what they lack in Charles’ absence? Or is each bond a fraction of itself, and Aramis now benefits from a happiness they still lack? If only they could speak of it somehow, using better words than _complete_ and _whole_ and _love_ ; if only they could measure their bonds’ strengths, and compare them.

“No sorrow today,” Adele says determinedly. “Today is about you. You’ve found your mate, little brother. Today we celebrate.”

She raises her glass. Aramis does likewise, and clinks it with hers.

“To love,” she says.

“To life,” Lemay adds.

“To fortune,” Aramis concludes, and they all drink. They talk and laugh and make merry until the stars fade from the sky, and as the sun bursts above the city walls to the east Aramis turns into Lemay’s kiss and knows that he’ll go anywhere, do anything, if only he gets to have this.

* * *

Their fortune comes from the most unexpected of sources. The young Dauphin, only six months old but already the hope of France, falls ill with a cold. There is no court physician; the previous holder of that post had retired two years ago, and the specialist brought in during the Queen’s pregnancy has just recently returned to Switzerland. Louis is frantic. He demands that the best physician in all of Paris be found brought to his son.

To identify this exalted savior, Louis naturally relies on his First Minister, Cardinal Richelieu. Who stuns Aramis as he stands guard in the throne room by turning to Captain Treville, and saying,

“Haven’t you been telling me lately, Captain, of a remarkable medical prodigy who’s been wasting his life and his talent patching up your men?”

Through some miracle Aramis remains standing, silent, and with his jaw firmly attached to his face. Nothing can prevent his heart from leaping or his stomach from dropping precipitously. The Captain has noticed that Lemay has been hanging around the garrison, helping out? Noticed it, to the extent that he’s actually mentioned it to others? To the _Cardinal_?

The King is seizing on the mention of a medical prodigy. He’s ordering Treville to find Lemay and bring him to the palace to wait upon the Dauphin. And Treville – of course – Treville turns to the nearest Musketeer. Who happens to be Aramis.

Aramis bows his way out of the throne room in a daze. He doesn’t know what to think. The opportunity is fantastic. If Lemay can help the Dauphin – if he can impress the King – if he can impress the _Cardinal_ –

If he could only be sure that the Captain didn’t _know_.

Lemay thinks of none of these things. He hardly thinks at all. When Aramis bangs on his door, out of breath and startling his landlord out of ten years of her life, all Lemay thinks of is the chance to prove himself.

Aramis brings Lemay back to the Palace as fast as he can. Louis falls on the promise of healing with relief; Lemay vanishes into the inner quarters before Aramis can so much as wish Lemay luck. Aramis is left standing outside the doors, trying to control his hope and his fear both.

“Stay on guard,” Treville instructs him, before he follows Louis into the Dauphin’s quarters. “Be ready to fetch anything the Doctor may require.”

The Captain gives Aramis a significant look to go along with his words. Aramis spends the next two hours shivering, wondering what it means.

* * *

The Dauphin does more than survive. He thrives. Louis is ecstatic. Lemay wisely disclaims the most florid praise, which earns the trust of the Cardinal that he is at least an honest man. Lemay also makes sure to credit the help of the Queen’s confidant Constance, whose suggestion of steam for the infant’s lungs, Lemay says, had helped speed the Dauphin’s recovery. This praise gains Lemay the affection of both confidante and Queen. The infant, when healed, is brought to court for the first time and seizes the opportunity to make the auspicious sound _pah_. Louis is certain that this is shorthand for _père_ ; consequently he, too, becomes a devotee of Lemay’s medical skill. Lemay is proclaimed court physician without further delay.

When they get the news, they stumble out of the Louvre nearly giddy with joy. The Musketeers want to take Lemay drinking, and only the need for him to present himself at court tomorrow, bright and early for his official presentation, keep the Musketeers from simply carrying him off on their shoulders like a conquering hero. Instead Lemay is allowed to go to bed, though he’s already half-drunk on praise, and Aramis has no trouble persuading his comrades that he’d better make sure their court physician-to-be isn’t set upon by footpads as Lemay makes his way back to his lodgings with stars in his eyes and his head in the clouds.

Lemay’s joy is infectious. In one stroke their troubles are removed. He will be able to stay in Paris, support himself, do the work he loves. He’ll be able to send money back to his uncle to provide for him in his old age. With the King’s backing, Lemay will be able to do research and write papers and gain renown that most will only dream of. And he’ll be able to do it all right here, in Paris, where Aramis is also. Where they can be together.

And yet Aramis can still feel the afterimage of the Captain’s significant gaze burning into the back of his head. He still can’t help but wonder if the Captain knows. But Lemay is ecstatic, and as he reaches for Aramis to share his joy, Aramis sets the worry aside. For today, Lemay’s position is assured. For today, they’ll stay in Paris, each doing what he loves best. For today, there’s happiness. Tomorrow can take care of itself.

* * *

(Years later, Aramis gets his answer in the shocked fear that paints itself across his Captain’s face when Aramis sees the name on Treville’s hand. The Captain hadn’t known. Hadn’t guessed. Hadn’t even ever so much as suspected. Doesn’t suspect even now: Treville’s eyes go straight to Aramis’ cross, and that’s wrong, that’s all sorts of wrong, that the Captain would be afraid of what Aramis might do with his secret.

Aramis stammers something about gloves and leaves the room before he can betray himself and the Captain both in the presence of the other Guards and Musketeers who still litter the room. He has to pause as soon as he’s alone to breathe, and collect himself, and ache at the thought of all of them stumbling through this life alone and afraid when they’d help each other in a heartbeat if only they’d _known –_ )

* * *

((He tells the Captain later, privately, without words.))

* * *

(((Later still, much later, Charlotte and Adele learn of a small village in Gascony. Of a farmer whose son has a soul mark no one has ever seen. Of a Christian name: _Charles_. The information comes to them from a man who wears no uniform, but whose cloak is lined with red and worn inside-out.

Athos begs a leave of absence from Treville and all three go off as fast as their horses can travel. Thus it is that none of them are present when Charles d’Artagnan stumbles through the gates to the garrison, his father’s blood on his hands and _Athos_ scrawled across his ribcage for the world to see. Aramis is there seconds after the Captain’s urgent call. As Aramis tucks the boy under his arm, he sees _Adele_ lettered in tiny script at the base of Charles’ neck, where the boy’s grown his hair long to cover it.

Later, when Charles has been cleaned and fed and shown Aramis’ mark in the privacy of the bath-chamber, Charles shows Aramis where _Charlotte_ lives, safely tucked behind his right knee.

Aramis writes to his sister the following day. Treville takes the letter and goes to attend court.)))

* * *

((((They have to stick together, after all.))))


End file.
